


her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you

by nihilistporcupine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire
Genre: F/M, dubcon, underage marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 02:44:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4462439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nihilistporcupine/pseuds/nihilistporcupine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In halting Dothraki, as she braids his hair with surprisingly skilled fingers, she tells him of her childhood- iron chairs, dust-strewn streets, her mother's crown, a house with lemon trees and a crimson door." Fifty sentences on Khal Drogo and Daenerys Targaryen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you

_coffee_

She's nursing a mug of steaming coffee when Viserys marches into her bedchamber ( _I've arranged a marriage for you, Daenerys, Khal Drogo wants a wife and I want my throne and we'll both be victors and you won't jeopardize that and wake the dragon, will you_ )— the knowledge that she's being used as a bargaining chip is more bitter than the liquid scalding her throat.

_taboo_

There is something very _wrong_ about a Targaryen of centuries-old lineage being thrust into marriage with a savage chief; she supposes that Viserys has truly grown desperate since they were forced to sell Mother's diadem.

_beginning_

Her silvery hair is tended to until it gleams like starlight, her thin frame is cloaked in lavender silk, and she reeks of incense, but Viserys is smirking like a knife and Khal Drogo's leer is far from innocent— what she needs now is courage, and she can't derive that from pretty fripperies.

_hollow_

Men congregate at her feet, blessing her marriage and plying her with gifts— their well-wishes ring hollow.

_air_

The wind coldly kisses her bare arms, sending a shudder down her spine; she glances at the brutality and shameless copulation that is her wedding entertainment, at her stoic, terrifying mountain of a husband, and forces herself to smile and smile.

_flying_

For a moment she is gleeful as she soars atop her new steed— then she dismounts, Viserys hisses for her to _make him happy_ , and she's forced to face reality once more.

_honor_

He is her master now and can claim her however he likes, but something resembling honor leads him to wipe her wet cheeks and progress slowly that first time, until she herself draws his hands down to her slit.

_grave_

After she weds Khal Drogo, she buries what remains of her innocence.

_bugs_

The bloodflies seem to vex his new bride to no end, and he observes the livid marks they leave on her delicate skin; after a time, he presents her with a jar of balm from the medicine women, finding that her brief, genuine look of gratitude is thanks enough.

_dark_

She thinks that he doesn't notice the dark, wet stains her tears create whenever they fuck ( _almost every night, she pretends to enjoy herself and he pretends to believe her._ )

_hope_

Hope is all she has now— hope that her body will harden, hope that she can learn her new people's customs adequately, hope that her husband will someday see it fit to treat her with tenderness.

_apples_

He slices up the thin-skinned fruit with his arakh, handing her half of the pale crescent moons— a calmness, suited to the balmy lull of midday, overtakes them both.

_green_

He has bedded maidens as green as summer grass— Daenerys has seen far too much to languish in naivete.

_doors_

In halting Dothraki, as she braids his hair with surprisingly skilled fingers, she tells him of her childhood— iron chairs, dust-strewn streets, her mother's crown, a house with lemon trees and a crimson door.

_rain_

Drogo is a man of few words, yet when she does tell her stories they are more often than not about rain— lengthy monsoons that turn the ground beneath the horses' hooves into cloying mud, days when sheets of precipitation pour onto the earth one hour and there's sunlight glinting off dewdrops the next.

_snakes_

Viserys is as beautiful as his sister but as cunning as a serpent; despite Daenerys's pleas, he cannot trust this contemptuous newcomer, especially not after he sees the flash of red at the base of his wife's throat.

_flexible_

Initially he resists the idea of taking her from the front, but he becomes remarkably flexible after getting to look upon her face during their coupling.

_strange_

Daenerys, one night, straddles him and demands that they look upon each other's eyes during sex— such a strange request, he thinks, but eventually humors her all the same.

_drink_

She loathes clotted mares' milk— it's impossible to get past her nose— but she pretends to down it with great enthusiasm around her husband.

_secret_

There is nothing hidden in this khalasar, not even lovemaking— this loss of privacy is the hardest thing to get used to.

_light_

He takes her beneath the stars in full view of the khalasar; "I am with child," Daenerys whispers, her swollen belly pressed against his.

_duty_

He half-expects Daenerys to balk or vomit or cringe while devouring the raw horse heart, but she unflinchingly performs the less-than-pleasant duty— he watches his son's mother with a sort of fierce pride.

_food_

Pregnancy causes her every meal to be punctuated by a round of upchucking— one day, she finds that someone is holding back her hair as she retches— still heaving, she turns around to find Drogo.

_foot_

He finds Viserys's arrogance astounding— does Sorefoot King really think himself owed a khalasar at his beck and call?— and wonders how he and Daenerys could possibly be siblings.

_fire_

He tips a pot of molten gold onto his brother-in-law's head, yet Daenerys only gazes at the scene with cool detachment— 'fire cannot kill a dragon.'

_metal_

"Why do your people care so much for iron chairs?" he asks, and Daenerys only laughs.

_old_

She is so young, barely three-and-ten; he runs weathered palms over her small breasts and narrow hips and feels a thousand years her senior.

_fall_

Autumn's frosty tendrils worm their way into even a fire-heated tent; she shivers and draws closer to Drogo's warm body.

_head_

In a fit of whimsy, she fashions her husband a circlet from wildflowers— "there," she declares, placing it upon his head and vainly trying to suppress her giggles, "you look a proper southern lord now."

_peace_

Sometimes she believes she can be at peace with Drogo, but the firelight reflected off her eggs' curved surfaces reminds her that dragons never rest easy, especially when they are alone.

_new_

Jorah loves her, Jorah loves her, but she loves Drogo and she loved him first.

_poison_

He presses a shaky kiss to her forehead (she's alive, frightened and pale but alive, not still in the dirt with poison coursing through her); dimly, he realizes that he loves her.

_earth_

To the Dothraki, the world ends where the grass does, and it takes her near-poisoning at the hands of a market assassin to convince Khal Drogo to gather his men, board wooden warhorses, and sail across toxic water.

_pretty_

As long as both holes are reasonably tight, he's content with a woman— but he has to admit that, as she dresses in the morning sunlight, Daenerys is a very pretty girl.

_solid_

Drogo is content to eat, sleep, fuck, and wage war— oddly, this simplicity is somewhat endearing.

_summer_

Summer is fading before their very eyes, yet he is unwilling to exchange a season of hazy lust for one of frozen chastity.

_roses_

She smells of rosewater, he thinks— it is a rare scent in such an arid land, but Daenerys has never been common.

_spring_

They come across a spring almost by accident, a clean pool of water surrounded by miles of steppe— teasingly, she asks Drogo if he'd like her to bathe for him.

_snow_

She is a child of the summer and has never known snow, but he has.

_ugly_

Daenerys demands that she take the conquered women of Lhazareen as personal slaves instead of leaving them to be raped— the Dothraki shoot ugly, poisonous glares in her direction for weeks afterwards, but Drogo could not be more pleased at her boldness.

_water_

She takes a long draught of water from the earthenware jug and turns to him with reddened lips; for the first time, he kisses her, though it is not the Dothraki way.

_lost_

He topples off his horse— that's when she should have known that the battle was over.

_regret_

Never, never should she have trusted a slave woman who nursed only vengeance at her bosom.

_stable_

She deludes herself into believing that the death of a horse will be enough to bring about the rebirth of her husband— after hours of fruitless labor, she finds out the truth.

_winter_

It is unbearably hot in Drogo's tent, but winter has descended upon her heart— the maegi has taken her son for payment.

_welcome_

Desperately, she does all she can to welcome Drogo's soul back to his body, singing him songs and telling him tales and playing with his hair until the sun sinks deep below the horizon and she knows what she must do.

_despair_

This isn't her Khal Drogo, not this soulless, motionless husks who barely clings to life, yet she still chokes back a sob as she draws the cushion over his mouth and nose.

_end_

A lover dead at the hands of his lover and that is the end of the stallion and the dragon.

_war_

Her former khalasar is in warring shambles, and she is urged to flee to the dosh khaleen as soon as possible, yet that would mean admitting that she is a moon without sun or stars.

_wood_

She throws herself onto Drogo's funeral pyre not as a grieving bride but as the mother to dragons— perhaps where there is death, there can be birth.


End file.
